The Nature of Tragedy
by invisibleinkstains
Summary: "Tragedy strikes us all sooner or later." Following the murder of her sister there's one thing Prue Halliwell wants more than anything else: justice. Luckily for her the SFPD homicide inspector investigating wants that too. But mourning is about more than the five stages of grief and she's about to find out that she's not as strong as she thought she was. AU. Andy/Prue, Piper/Leo.
1. Chapter 1

**This is pretty AU so I'm very nervous about it, there's no magic and I've taken quite a lot of liberties with the characters too. Some of them are definitely going to be a little (or maybe a lot) OOC and inevitably it's going to get angsty at parts. It's written in first person but it switches between Andy's and Prue's viewpoints.**

**Also, I'm really sorry about the sister I killed off but I had to kill one of them and for the purposes of the story it had to be the one I chose. Forgive me?  
**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

* * *

I hate murders. As a homicide detective a lot of people would probably tell me I'm in the wrong job but it never gets easier, seeing how despicable, how abhorrent human beings can be to one another. But the job's worth it when you get to arrest the scumbags responsible. Offer a little justice to the victims and their families, even if it _is_ only a little.

Morris is waiting for me outside the house, looking impatient.

"Traffic," I say, before he can ask where I've been and he scowls at my inadequate excuse. "So who's the vic?"

"Phoebe Halliwell, in her early twenties. Looks like she's been strangled."

"Strangled," I repeat.

"Yeah. She lived here with her boyfriend."

With a sinking heart I know already that he is most likely the one responsible.

I still ask, "Where's he then?" but Morris' face says it all.

"Your guess is as good as mine," he says, shrugging. "Looks like he's run for it."

"Fantastic," I mutter.

Sighing, I follow Morris through the house to where the girl's body is. Forensics are already there and I have to walk around them to see her. She's pretty, the girl, or at least she _was_ when she was alive, but she looks _broken_. They always look broken, like rag dolls, lifeless and limp, although some more than others. She's young, too, and I think instantly of all she could have had in front of her and how pointless it is that she's had it taken away from her for nothing.

I turn away from the sight to face Morris again. "How do you know the boyfriend's run?"

"I don't know for sure, but it certainly _looks_ that way. Somebody's been through some of the drawers and the closet in the bedroom in a hurry.

"Passport?"

"Maybe."

"What about next of kin?"

"Look into it when you get back to the station," he tells me. "I'll stay here."

I'm relieved to get out of the house and I willingly leave. It's easier to breathe outside, away from the body. It seems unbelievable that the sun is still shining out here and that somewhere nearby a bird is singing when inside the darkened house just behind me lies a dead woman.

I start to head away from the house towards where my car is parked, just beyond the police tape the officers have used to cordon off the house and I'm almost there when I get waylaid by another woman, not so unlike the one I've just left behind. Only this one is very real and very alive as she grabs onto my jacket sleeve tightly.

"What's happening?" She demands, glancing beyond me towards the house instead. She's breathless, and frankly she looks scared out of her wits.

I stare at her in momentary disbelief, wondering what exactly she thinks she's doing accosting me at a murder scene and whether she's mistaken me for somebody else, but she doesn't look apologetic or confused. She looks desperate.

"Who are you?" I ask her finally, regaining some of my composure and trying to sound authoritative.

"My sister, Phoebe, is she alright?" She asks me, ignoring my question although I suppose she's kind of answered it with her own question. Sister. My heart sinks and I hesitate in answering, my first mistake, because she picks up on it immediately.

"_Phoebe_," she says again as if she thinks I might have misheard her, looking even more desperate.

I try to get it together, attempting to prize her hands from their grip on my jacket so that I can get her away from me to somewhere where someone else can tell her the bad news. _Bad news_. Awful news more like.

"If you'd like to wait over there, someone will come to speak with you shortly," I say, trying to sound professional although I feel anything but. I place a hand on her arm to steer her away from where all the cops talking, oblivious to the two of us, but she pushes me off impatiently.

"My _sister_," she repeats. "Please tell me she's okay. Please."

I stare at her and no words come out. I should not be the one to tell her, I'm not really qualified to begin with. We have people specially trained for this job, but the problem is not one of them is around right now, and if I _don't _say her sister is okay then she'll know she isn't, but I can't lie either. It's a catch-22.

I realize then that she knows what I'm going to tell her, that she knows but she wants me to tell her otherwise, that she wants desperately to be wrong, and until I actually say the words then there's still a chance, isn't there?

"What's your name?" I ask her gently.

She stares at me for several seconds and then her face crumples. "No," she insists. "_Tell me_."

I think about how to phrase it so that it will hurt the least, even though I know it's impossible to do that. No one can lessen the pain of what I'm about to tell her.

"Your sister…" She's shaking her head and I have no idea how to continue that sentence anyway. "I'm sorry," I say finally.

She grabs onto the sleeve of my jacket again as if she can't stand up anymore, so I grab onto her arm in return just in case.

"Why did you have to tell me?" She asks, as if it is me telling her that has taken her sister away.

I stare helplessly at her. She looks back at me for several seconds as if she really expects an answer and then her face crumples. Now it feels as if I really am holding her up, so I try to lead her to sit down somewhere, but the furthest away from the house I can get her is my car so I open the backdoor for her and make her sit down on the backseat, facing outwards towards me.

"She…she can't be gone," she says to me. "She's my baby sister. _I__'__m_ supposed to look after her, to protect her from things like this!"

I crouch down in front of her and rest a hand on her shoulder. She's really crying now.

"Where is he?" She asks through loud sobs.

I know who she means. The boyfriend.

"We're trying to locate him," I inform her, the official line on it, although I know it sounds pathetic.

"You mean you don't know," she accuses. This makes her cry louder, so I start rubbing her shoulder with my thumb, a weak gesture while wondering where the hell the people who are supposed to do this are.

"Here, let me get you a tissue," I say gently as she wipes her cheeks with her hands. I start to stand up but her hand darts out and holds onto my jacket sleeve.

"Don't go," she says, staring at me desperately. "Don't leave me alone!"

I hesitate, but her face is too imploring to turn away from even though I want to. I'm not very good at comforting people.

"I think I have some tissues in the glove compartment," I say softly. "Let me just look there."

She nods, letting go of my sleeve so I can open the passenger door to check.

"I want my sister back," she whispers behind me. I turn back with a packet of tissues and press one of them into her hand.

"I know," I murmur. "I know you do."

She wipes her cheeks and eyes.

"Where is she?" She asks me and I frown. "I mean, where is…her…" She trails off and I realize what she means.

"She's inside."

Her eyes dart to the house. "I want to see her."

"Listen…" I realize she hasn't told me her name yet. "Listen honey," I say in lieu of a name. She focuses back on me. "I don't think that's a good idea right now, and even if I wanted to let you, I couldn't. Forensics are in there. The best thing you could do is go home. Is there anybody you can call?"

This seems to trigger something in her memory, because she starts crying again, _hard_. "Piper," she says. "Someone has to call Piper."

"Who's Piper?"

"My other sister," she manages to say. "Oh god, I can't tell her, I can't."

"You won't have to," I reassure her, glancing around yet again for someone who will.

She leans her head forward to rest on her knees and sobs.

"Hey," I murmur, trying to find the words to help her as I rest a hand on her back.

"This is all my fault," she tells me through muffled hands.

"How is it your fault?"

"I should have made her leave _him_, I should have pressed harder. I knew. I knew he'd do something like this one day."

I glance around, but surprisingly nobody's paying much attention to us, maybe because of the distance we are from the house, outside the sanctity of the cordon.

"Move up," I tell her.

"What?" She asks, looking up with tear-stained cheeks.

"The car, move up along the backseat."

She does as I say and I climb in next to her, leaving the door open so as not to alarm her. She's blinking at me through tears.

"What's your name?" I ask her, hoping this time she'll answer me.

"Prue," she replies.

"Prue," I repeat. "I know this hurts. I can't imagine _how_ much, but I know that much. But I _promise_ you we will find your sister's boyfriend."

Another tear rolls down her cheek as she nods blindly in response and I wonder if she even heard me.

"_I_ promise," I repeat. "_I _promise."


	2. Chapter 2

I've always known that tragedy strikes us all sooner or later. Later, if you're lucky.

I wish I were one of the lucky ones.

He takes me back to the station, me a muted passenger in the car, too shell-shocked to speak or make small talk with him. I simply clutch the tissue he gave to me tightly in my hands and watch the buildings go by out of the passenger window.

He's told me that somebody else can tell Piper what's happened, somebody _qualified_, but I know that I'm the only person qualified to do it so when we get to the station he lets me use his desk phone to call her and ask her if she can come down to the station. I try not to alarm her but it's hard not to when you're asking someone you love to drive to a _police station_ to meet you. I just reassure her that I'm fine (a lie) and she doesn't think to ask about Phoebe.

I have to give a statement. _A statement_. And I have to _wait_ for him to have a free moment to take it. Of course that's not how he puts it, but that's what he means. Not that it's his fault that they're understaffed. He seats me at his desk and brings me a cup of coffee to drink while I wait.

After I've drunk the coffee I rest my head in my arms on his desk and shut my eyes tightly. I only spoke to Phoebe two days ago. _Only_. I should have been calling her everyday instead of letting my own life overtake me. I convinced myself that she didn't want to hear from me because of our conflicting views on her boyfriend, but really, was that true? And now I never get to speak to her again.

"Prue?"

I reluctantly lift my head from my hands and look up to find the inspector standing in front of me awkwardly, looking very much like he'd rather not interrupt whatever he thinks I'm doing right now. I wipe my eyes quickly and attempt a smile, although it must come across more like a grimace.

"I'm sorry you've been waiting," he says apologetically.

"It's fine," I say flatly, and honestly I don't care. What does it really matter?

"There's an interview room free," he tells me. "It'll be quieter there."

He gestures for me to stand up and follow him, so I do.

"Do you want another coffee?" He offers as he opens the door for me.

"No thanks," I mutter, stepping into the room. "So is this where you interview suspects?" I ask, looking around as he shuts the door.

"N-no," he stammers, looking uncomfortable. "Just…just family. Friends. People like that."

"Oh. Right. People like me."

People whose lives are being ripped apart. He doesn't seem to know what to say to this so in the end he says nothing, just takes his seat and indicates that I should do the same.

"Let's start with how long they'd been seeing each other?"

"I don't know, about six months I think."

He writes this down on a piece of paper and I fidget uncomfortably. I don't want a record of everything I'm saying in this room. I already know what question is coming and it's one I don't want to answer, even though I've as good as already admitted the answer earlier.

"Inspector?" I interrupt and he looks up from his notes expectantly. "I-I already know what you're going to ask." He puts his pen down and looks at me with interest. "And I just…I want to say it before you ask about it."

"Okay," he says slowly, sitting back in his chair now.

"I knew," I whisper, a horrible confession that seems to echo around the room we're sitting in.

"You knew what?" He asks gently.

I shake my head. Why is he making me _say_ it? We both know what I'm referring to.

"Has he done something to Phoebe before?" He presses, leaning forward in his seat.

"Yes," I say, covering my face with my hands as the tears start to burn my eyes again. "Not that she _told_ me, not explicitly, but I knew all the same. I could tell."

I drop my hands from my face and risk looking at him. I think I'm expecting to see revulsion over the fact that I knew that my little sister's boyfriend was a no-good piece of scum and I still didn't do anything about it, but his face is completely neutral. Still, I feel a sudden inexplicable need to justify myself to him.

"I told her to leave him. To come back home, that we'd look after her. _I__'__d_ look after her. But she wouldn't do it. She didn't want to listen to me, told me I never approve of her boyfriends. Maybe it was true, maybe I never _did_ approve of them, but it's only because none of them were ever really good enough for her."

"Did she ever tell _anyone_?" He asks. "A doctor, the police, a refuge?"

"No…not that I know of, anyway. I don't think she would have. She…she thought she loved him. Thought that he loved her. Anyway, it wasn't _that_ bad. It wasn't like you're thinking."

Every word I say sounds awful. I can hardly bear to listen to myself speak and I don't know how he can stand to write it down, but he does. He's filling the page with my words, my _confession_, and I start to feel sick. This doesn't feel real, it can't be real. Perhaps there's been a mistake, a horrible misunderstanding. It's possible, right? I find myself having to lean forward to fight against the wave of nausea I'm now experiencing. He looks alarmed at my sudden movement.

"_This isn't happening, this isn't happening_," I moan quietly, head back in my hands for what seems like the hundredth time today.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, his voice sounding distant, and I have to force myself to focus on where I am, to hold it together. "It's not your fault, you know," he adds.

I blink away the tears and look up at him, startled.

"What?"

"You…you said you told her to leave. That you knew what he was like." He sounds nervous about what he's about to say. "It isn't your fault that she didn't."

"Thank you." I pause, then start to say, "I…" but trail off. I want to tell him I'm grateful but I can't get the words out because if I speak then I'll cry. He seems to understand anyway, because he briefly gives me an awkward smile and a quick nod before returning his attention to his notes.

* * *

I don't know how I tell Piper, but I do. By the time she arrives I've stopped crying, not because I can't cry anymore, but because the last thing I want is for Piper to feel _she_ has to comfort _me_. I don't cry again until after Piper has fallen asleep sometime after 1am.

I sleep with the light on that night. Or rather, I don't sleep but lie on my bed wide awake while feeling as if I must be dreaming all the same. There's no moment of remembrance the next morning because I never fell asleep to forget.

The first light of morning is gray and cold, an unwelcome intrusion on the comforting stillness of the dark night outside. Soon the sun will rise and it will really be morning, and I'll have to stop pretending to sleep and get up. I'll have to start calling people to let them know what has happened. I'll have to start making plans for implausible things like a _funeral_.

When I get downstairs I find Piper sitting at the kitchen table huddled in a blanket with a stone cold cup of coffee in front of her, staring blankly at it.

"Piper, how long have you been up?" I ask, sitting down next to her.

She looks startled at my appearance and she shakes her head wordlessly, giving a small shrug before returning her gaze to the coffee cup. I stand up and grab the cup, taking it over to the sink and tipping its contents down the drain.

"I'll make you a fresh one," I tell her, in full-on big sister mode already.

"Doesn't matter," she mumbles. "Not really thirsty."

I set about making the coffee anyway, to give me something to do so I don't have to sit and stare at the kitchen table like Piper, even though it's what part of me _wants_ to do.

"I'm going to start calling people today," I tell Piper over my shoulder. "Let them know."

"Like who?" She asks, shifting around in her chair to look at me.

"Her friends. Victor. You know. People."

"Oh right. Dad."

"He deserves to know."

"Yeah, yeah he does," Piper agrees.

I pour out two new cups of coffee and return to the table, handing one to Piper.

"Do you…do you want me to help you call people?" Piper asks tentatively.

In truth I _do_, but I can tell Piper doesn't want to do it so I say briskly, "No, I can do it. Don't worry about it." Piper nods slowly and blows on her coffee. "You can go see Leo if you like," I prompt. "I don't mind."

"Hmm, maybe," Piper says noncommittally. "Maybe."

* * *

One of Victor's first questions is why I didn't call him sooner. I have to bite back the urge to tell him that he's damn lucky I've even called him at all. He might be our father biologically but as far as _I__'__m_ concerned that's as far as the relationship goes. It's only because I know Phoebe cared for him (okay, _loved_ him) that I'm calling at all. Answering Victor's questions isn't easy and I suddenly wish I'd let Piper do this.

"They haven't caught him?"

"No."

"Well where is he then?"

"I don't know," I mutter through gritted teeth.

"How long had she been seeing this man?"

"Six months."

"Six _months_? And she was living with him?"

"Sort of."

"And you _let_ her?"

I lose my temper at this. How dare he make it out to be _my_ fault? Like _I__'__m_ the parent in this situation. Parent by default maybe, but _he__'__s_ the one who should have been here, said something, not _me_. Not to mention the fact that Phoebe is - _was_ - an adult anyway, not a child I could order around. And I did _try_ to talk her out of it. I did _try_.

"You really _don__'__t_ get it, do you?! _You__'__re _the parent, _Dad_. Where were you? How did you feel about her moving in with him? Oh _wait_, you didn't even know!"

I slam the phone down before he can respond to any of this but my fury quickly transforms into tears. After all, what Victor's saying is only what I've been asking myself.

When he calls back five minutes later I keep my temper in check and try to be as civil as I can. Maybe Victor's trying too, because he doesn't say anything else to make me really want to lose it again, just asks me questions about how Piper is and when the funeral is.

* * *

I sleep the third night only because I have to, exhausted and unable to keep my eyes open any longer. It's not the restful sleep I've been hoping for though. I wake up just after 3am, my cheeks damp and struggling for breath. I have to bury my face in my pillow while I cry in case Piper hears me.

When I've eventually stopped crying I get out of bed and head to Piper's room. We've left the all the hall and landing lights on, and like me Piper has left a bedside lamp on because when I go into her room it's lit and she's awake. She doesn't ask what I'm doing here. She doesn't need to.

"Do you mind?" I whisper, gesturing to the empty side of her bed and she shakes her head.

"I can't sleep," she admits as I climb into the bed next to her.

"Me neither."

"I can't stop thinking about Phoebe. What are we going to do?"

"We're going to get up everyday and keep breathing," I tell her firmly. "We're going to take it one day at a time. We're going to carry on living. It might take a while, but we will do it. One day at a time."

"One day at a time," she repeats in a whisper.

I sigh and burrow down under the covers.

"Go to sleep, Piper," I murmur.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sandy, you reviewed as a guest so I couldn't reply to your lovely review but thank you so much! It was very much appreciated (as is everyone else's).**

**I hope this chapter isn't too gruesome for anyone. I ended up toning it down just in case.**

* * *

I'm thinking about the Giants and the last World Series when Morris interrupts my daydreaming by dropping a file on my desk.

"Post-mortem results," he informs me.

"Great," I say unenthusiastically, pulling the file towards me and reluctantly opening it. I always find the minute details in the post-mortem reports too clinically cold and detached and it makes me uncomfortable to read. This one is no different. Manual strangulation. Petechiae of the conjuctivae, a fractured hyoid bone and hemorrhages that confirm it was antemortem fracture, pressure obstruction of the carotid arteries prevented blood flow to her brain, abrasions to the neck and fingernail marks from her own hands trying to free her neck…

I shut the file abruptly.

"Can you call the family? Let them know they're releasing the body?"

Morris gives me a strange look, but says, "Sure." I know he's wondering why I can't do it. I've done it plenty of times before, after all. It's just that this time I'm thinking of Prue's face when I told her what had happened to her sister and I don't want to speak to her again only to give her more unpleasant news. I won't be able to do it without picturing the way she looked in the car that day and I can't do that again. I made her a promise which I haven't kept yet.

At least now they can have a funeral. The first step towards some kind of closure. It's not as good as me actually _catching_ the guy, but it's something all the same.

Morris returns ten minutes later having done the deed.

"Done your dirty work," he informs me with a grin, dropping into his desk chair.

"Thanks. Do you know what's great about you? The way you do me these favors without ever complaining once."

He throws a pen at me which bounces off my shoulder and rolls under my desk.

"So why didn't you want to do it?" He asks.

"I'm just not in a bad news giving mood today," I say with a shrug.

"Then you're in the wrong job," Morris tells me.

"Hmm, probably," I agree.

"Still, I think you've probably missed the boat on that baseball career you were dreaming of," he adds and it's my turn to throw a pen at him although I still laugh.

"Listen," Darryl says in a more serious voice. "If that girl's still bothering you that much then buy some flowers and a card, send them to her, tell her you're very sorry."

"Yeah, because some flowers are going to make up for her sister." I sigh. "I promised her we'd catch him."

"You _promised_ her?" He repeats, raising his eyebrows.

"Well I had to say something, didn't I?" I say defensively.

"Yeah," he says slowly. "That you're _very sorry for her loss_."

"Those words are empty," I say dismissively.

"Like your promise?" Darryl returns quickly.

I scowl at him. I hate how he's always one step ahead of me and my train of thoughts but he's sort of right on this one.

"Look," he says with a sigh, "she's not going to remember some promise you made while she was crying her eyes out."

"Yes she will. It was kind of a big promise."

"Well we _will_ get him," Morris says confidently. "Eventually. So quit feeling guilty and let's get some lunch."

* * *

"Seriously, what is wrong with you?" Morris demands, leaning across the table and waving a hand in front of my face to draw my attention back to the conversation we're supposed to be having.

"Nothing," I say unconvincingly and he rolls his eyes. "No, really, it's nothing," I say again, trying to sound a little more convincing this time.

"You wanna tell me why _nothing__'__s _got you zoning out on me while I'm trying to tell you about the date I had last night? Not to mention the lunch you've barely touched." He nods at the plate of fries in front of me.

"Date?" I repeat, blinking at him in confusion. The last thing I heard him say was about how the guy in the apartment above his had taken to throwing parties every Thursday night; I don't know at what point we transitioned to his date. For that matter, I don't remember him ever mentioning having a date planned last night to begin with.

"Yeah, _date_," he says in exasperation. "I told you about it last week."

"Oh, yeah," I say, although I don't remember at all.

"Are you _still_ thinking about the Halliwell case?" He asks me, as usual cutting straight to the point.

"Yeah," I admit sheepishly.

"What is your problem? So you promised some girl you'd find her sister's killer. It's your _job_."

"No, it's not just that. It's the whole thing."

"What whole thing?" He asks suspiciously, narrowing his eyes at me.

"I don't know," I mutter, but I _do_ know. I just don't want to say.

I know Darryl will tell me it's not like we haven't seen this before, but that's partly the problem. We _have_ seen it before, so many times that I've lost count. When people think about homicides they think about dark alleys late at night, shadowy strangers pulling out knifes or guns and killing just because they can, but that's a far stretch from the reality of it. Instead of a homicidal psychopath the victim has simply had the misfortune to stumble into the path of, often it's someone they knew. _Loved_.

And in cases of domestic violence it's usually strangulation we see. It's all about power, control. Female victims are often at a physical disadvantage in the event of a strangulation with the bare hands.

"I guess I'm just sick of it all," I say finally. "People make me sick."

"Welcome to the real world," Darryl retorts, taking a bite of another fry.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sandy: I was wondering why I thought Darryl and Sheila might not have been married in season 1 and it turns out Sheila wasn't mentioned until mid-season 2, even though I guess they were married in season 1. So it wasn't an intentional thing to make Darryl unmarried, it's just my own headcanon!**

**Sorry it's taken me a while to get this up, I've been pretty busy the past week and a half. Also, I've just noticed this chapter's pretty short too...sorry!**

* * *

Today is the worst day of my life.

My sister, my _baby sister_, is lying dead in a wooden box.

We're going to cover up the box with soil. _Bury her_. Bury my _sister_.

But we have to.

Piper and I get the privilege of dropping two white lilies into the hole in the ground that is going to be her grave. The flowers can wither and rot under the earth we're going to bury her with. I find it hard to let go of my flower, only relinquishing my grip on it once my sister gives my arm a reassuring squeeze. _It__'__s okay_.

All I want to do after the service is curl up in a ball on my bed, away from the entire world but that isn't an option. Why is it that people are expected to have wakes after funerals? As if the whole thing isn't hard enough you're expected to invite people into your home, most of whom you dislike, and offer them food and an opportunity to say some clichéd and empty phrases to you in order to make _themselves_ feel better, when really it should just be a private family thing. I feel like I'll _scream_ if I have to smile and politely thank one more person who tells me how sorry they are that this had to happen and if there's anything they can do, _anything_ at all, then I shouldn't hesitate to call them. I'm almost certain that if I did call one of them over the next few days for a favor they'd be stunned.

There are too many people I don't know or care much about in the house, filling the hall, the living room and the sun room. It's getting harder and harder to concentrate on what any of them are saying to me and I can feel the pitying looks people keep giving me when they think I'm not looking burning into me.

I finally excuse myself when a girl who apparently worked with Phoebe two years ago begins crying in front of me. Upstairs is the only place that's devoid of people but once I get up there I realize that being by myself isn't the relief I thought it would be.

I lock the bathroom door and lean back against the wall, worried that if I don't then I won't be able to stand up anymore. I close my eyes hoping for some sort of momentary relief from what I'm feeling, but that's a mistake. With my eyes closed there is nothing to distract me and unpleasant thoughts can push through the frankly flimsy barrier I've tried to put up to prevent them. My attempts to stop these thoughts are about as effective as holding a sheet of paper over your head in a tropical storm to try to keep yourself dry; the continuous deluge soon causes the paper to disintegrate.

I'm finding it hard to decide whether the day that _it_ happened or this day, burying her, is the worst of my life. In a way today feels far worse. I have not seen or spoken to my sister for two weeks and one day. Fifteen days. I will never see her or speak to her again, which means that those two weeks are going to turn into a month and then three months and then a year, then five, then a decade, and then a lifetime. That thought is hard to stomach.

Today also seems worse because it's starting to become more real. My sister is dead and she is not coming back, however much I might want her to. My wishing and begging and praying and making absurd deals with a God I might not even believe in is not going to bring her back. Seeing her coffin today…seeing her _grave_…I can hardly fathom that my _sister_ was in them. That at this very second she is in a dark, cold wooden box that is being covered over with earth for all of eternity…forever is an unfathomable length of time by its very definition.

I stop myself from picturing her inside that coffin. My brain involuntarily conjures up images of what she might look like at the very moment complete with the horrifying injuries that ended her life. Worse, my imagination presses fast forward on that image so that I'm picturing her six months from now, a year from now…

With these images in my head I find myself stumbling forward to the bathroom to throw up. I cannot cope with this. Not only the grief and anger, but the thoughts I keep on having. I'm not equipped for it. I really can't see how I'm going to get through this. I have a vague notion that I will, simply because I must, but to use a cliché, I cannot see the light at the end of the tunnel. How am I supposed to accept what happened? My sister was not killed by an act of god, she was killed by an act of man. Somebody did this _to_ her, intentionally. Someone did this to _me_. They knew what they were doing and they did it anyway without a thought or care as to what they were taking away.

Sitting back I take a few deep breaths and fight against the second wave of nausea. All I have to do is get through the next few hours. Let people tell me they're sorry and if there's anything they can do then to let them know. In other words, let them comfort themselves so they can go away satisfied, knowing that they were kind to me, and sleep easy tonight. That's what this is about. If it were up to me then nobody would be here right now so that I wouldn't have to force smiles with people I don't even like and who my sister probably didn't like either.

I stand up slowly and take a look in the mirror. I don't know what I was expecting to see, but I look awful. Washing my face, redoing my mascara and having a glass of water doesn't particular improve things, but my appearance isn't top of my priorities right now so I decide that this will have to do and go back downstairs.

I scan the hall for Piper. I can't see her or Leo, and I note that I don't even recognize two thirds of the people in the room. My gaze settles on someone I do recognize. The inspector, the one who told me, or rather didn't tell me, what had happened to Phoebe. He has his back to me but you don't really forget what the person who told you your sister is dead looks like. I'm surprised he came actually. I only sent the invite to him because I thought if he came to the funeral, watched Piper and me falling apart, then it might be a little more motivation to try to catch the man responsible. Stupid, really, I know. That's not how the police work.

But he came.

I think about what he said that day, namely his vehement promises that he would catch _him_. I want to hear him say those words again. I want him to promise it to me again, just for the comfort it might bring to hear somebody telling me that they have the same goal I do, or at least a suitably similar one. His goal justice, while mine is something more akin to revenge, but we both want to catch the man and that's enough right now. I can worry about later when it comes.


End file.
